Skittles



    I don’t care what color his skin was. 

    
I can’t get past the rainbow of color in his pocket.




    Rainbow Skittles.




    Because those skittles say more about who he was than the dark hoodie that lent him a temporary tough-guy persona.




    He was just a kid -with candy in his pocket.




    A teenager.




    I know a thing or two about teenage boys.




    I’m often surrounded by them. And most of the time, I actually like them.




    They’re smart and funny, idealistic and passionate, silly and sweet. 
    
    
Unlike girls of their age, the boys are comedy instead of drama, action instead of words. They don’t adhere to a hidden agenda or look for the subtexts in a message. They don’t hold grudges or take offense where none’s intended. They’re much more what-you-see-is-what-you-get than the girls, simpler in a lot of ways.

    
But not in all ways. 

    
While raging hormones can reduce girls to hysteria, similar hormonal havoc can turn boys from mild-mannered to mad-mouthed. Instead of tears and tantrums, there’s a bubbling bravado that can spew forth like lava without provocation.




    And if they’re provoked? Well, they’re easily provoked.




    That’s where it all gets complicated.




    Teenage boys are straddling a thin line between boyhood and manhood, with unsure footing.




    In bodies they don’t yet fit, these straddlers are dealing with some weighty expectations –the world’s, and their own. Many of them are pretty confused, adrift, lonely even when they’re surrounded by friends. Often simmering beneath the surface of who they’re trying to become is a noxious mix of angst and anger. They have control of neither.

    
But for their age and gender, it’s unlikely that Michael has much in common with Trayvon Martin. Michael doesn’t look like Trayvon Martin. 

    He couldn’t be the victim of racial profiling.




    In our tiny town, though, Michael also doesn’t quite look like everyone else. That factor alone doesn’t usually get him in trouble.




    On the other hand, it does garner him a bit of attention.




    Walking down the street one evening, my son was stopped by the cops. It was 8:30. He was in the company of two girls. They were carrying a small yellow bag of Swedish fish.




    Pretty suspicious behavior.




    The cop asked the teens to show them what they had in the bag and they obliged. They didn’t have to; Michael knew this. I wonder if he had been accompanied by teenage boys instead of girls, if he would have been so willing to reveal the contraband.




    Because I’ve seen Michael’s anger. I’ve also seen him keep it in check. Luckily.




    Our teenage boys encounter authority figures –parents, coaches, teachers, principals, police officers-hundreds of times in a week without incident. The kids respect the authority; the adults don’t abuse it. However, in a head-to-head battle between man and teenage boy, it’s up to the adult to keep his head. Because as difficult as it may be for a man to maintain control in the face of an insolent teen, for a teenage boy to keep that same composure may be a taller order than he’s able to handle.

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Revenge



    Revenge is in vogue. At least by way of the new ABC nighttime soap bearing its name.



    Never mind that the eye-for-an-eye premise from which it stems has been around for as long as time. Or that the show is an admitted rip-off of The Count of Monte Cristo.


    Revenge has come to the Hamptons. And to those of us who may be willing to wait out the plot twists that it will surely require if it is to survive beyond a single season.
    


    Judging by the wait-and-see temper of its reviews, Revenge stands a chance.


    Maybe I’ll watch it.


    Revenge as entertainment is easier for me to understand than its lifelike sister.


    My mom used to say forgive, but don’t forget.


    Doesn’t really sound like forgiving then, but I think it was a cautionary mantra. And unintentionally, I may have taken the credo to heart. Some slights, try as I might, I can’t forget. Especially as a parent, when the mark they’ve hit is my kids. 

    
But revenge? Not for me. Nor do I understand a range of other emotions like jealousy and envy. I don’t get them.


    It’s not that I can’t relate to the anger at the root of revenge; it’s just that I Ieave its carryout to karma. What goes around comes around.


   Truth is, I haven’t the stomach for vengeance. Raw emotions are hard enough when they’re fresh. I can’t imagine holding onto them as they fester and grow.

    
I’ve known many people who’ve been tested in their lives and when I think to those who have come out the other side most intact, they’re inevitably the ones who’ve been able to let go of their anger.


    I liked my mother’s friend. She always treated me well, adored my parents and my family. But beneath the smiles she offered to us, there was always the trace of a muted rage. I didn’t know the full breadth of the backstory. All I knew was that the bile of her anger tainted most every part of her life. For her entire life. I wonder if she could have overcome her illness if she had found some sooner peace. Probably not. Happy people die, too.

    
My own friend could also have hung onto her anger. For a short while, she headed down its path. Her rage sometimes spilled over on nights out when her vocabulary was colored with curses.
 
    
But at decision time, she opted out of anger. Took a pass on revenge of any sort –even the legal, court-ordered kind.

    
It wasn’t worth it. 
    
    
Not to her.


    Not to me either.



    This isn’t magnanimous gesture on my behalf. It’s not a concerted or conscious effort to take a higher road. It’s more an energy thing. And a life-is-short sort of thing. I don’t have the energy to waste on an emotion I don’t like.
 
    
And life is short. Too short to spend it plotting revenge. Maybe even too short to spend watching it.